The Whispering Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

I had heard it from the landlord a dozen times, his face pale and voice trembling. He never said why, and I never asked. The apartment was perfect otherwise—cheap rent, quiet neighbors, and just the right amount of space. But that door, the one at the end of the hall, stayed locked.

At first, I didn’t mind. I even found comfort in its stillness, like it was hiding something I didn’t want to know. But then came the whispers. Late at night, just when I was about to drift off, a faint murmur would rise from behind it. Words I couldn’t make out, but they clawed at my mind, begging to be understood.

One night, curiosity won. I stood in front of the door, my hand shaking as I reached for the knob. *Don’t open it*, I reminded myself. But the whispers were louder now, more urgent. My fingers grazed the cold metal.

The lock clicked open on its own.

The door creaked, revealing nothing but darkness—a void so thick it swallowed the light from the hallway. And then I saw it. Two glowing eyes staring back at me, wide and unblinking.

The whispers turned to screams.

The last thing I heard before the door slammed shut was the sound of my own voice, joining the chorus.